by Kim Curran
Voices upon voices calling out a single word. Broadcasting it. Begging someone to listen.
// HELP. //
‘So afraid!’ I cry, falling to my knees and curling up into a ball.
‘It’s your chip, it must be going wrong,’ Ethan says, taking my head in his hands and trying to look into my eyes. ‘Shut it off.’
I shake my head, wordless. Nothing can describe what these people are going through. What I’m going through alongside them. Feeling it all at once. And there’s no escape. Because that’s the thing that Logan never told me and I haven’t told Ethan. There’s no off switch.
‘I can’t!’ I scream, tears pouring down my cheeks.
‘We have to get you to Logan. We have to get that thing out of you.’
‘No,’ I say pushing him away from me and trying to get to my feet. But my legs won’t hold the weight of all the pain pressing down on me.
This isn’t my chip breaking. It’s the world.
‘Logan,’ Ethan says. ‘This is him. This is his message. November fifth, remember? The day he said he was going to send a message to the world. This is him!’
I can hardly see Ethan now through the thousands of images streaming past my eyes. I scrabble for a point to hold on to, a single pair of eyes to look through. Scenes flick past. My eyes ache they’re moving so fast.
‘Petri! Petri! Stay with me.’ I can just make out his voice through the screams of animal fear coming from everyone, everywhere.
I can actually hear them now. Screams floating up from the streets below. Ethan lets go of me and presses his hands against his ears, trying to block it out. He wraps his arms around his head and curls up into a ball, pressing his knees against his hands, anything to stop the noise.
I’m still frantically searching. Picking an image from the constant flow, deciding it means nothing to me, then throwing it away. Trying to find something that makes any kind of sense. I stop on one image.
What I see makes my whole body start to shake.
My mother, staring into our mirror at home, her eyes so wide I think they might burst out of her head. Blood pouring down her face, her bright green nails clawing dark tracks through her pale flesh.
Then everything goes black and I collapse to the floor.
18
‘PETRI!’ I HEAR MY NAME being called. ‘Petri, it’s OK. You’re safe.’
It takes me seconds to realise the screaming is coming from me. But I can’t stop. I slap both hands over my mouth, trying to hold the sound in. Slowly, slowly it ebbs away. My throat is raw and burns as I take a ragged breath to calm myself.
There’s wetness on my face. Panicked, I rub my hands against my cheeks. It’s only tears.
‘Petri...’
I look up into Ethan’s eyes, which are widened by fear. I nod, trying to tell him I’m OK. But am I?
‘What happened?’ I say, my voice croaking.
‘I don’t know.’ He helps me to my feet. ‘One second the fireworks, the next, all this screaming. And not only you. It sounded like it was coming from everyone.’
‘Do you really think it was Logan’s doing?’ I stumble and catch myself on a fake pot plant. A plastic leaf comes away in my hand.
‘I don’t know.’ Ethan runs his shaking hand through his hair.
I stagger through the office, bumping into the abandoned tables and chairs, hardly looking where I’m going. I don’t want to believe this could have anything to do with Logan. Because if it does then it’s my fault. For betraying my mother.
My mother.
‘Zizi!’ I gasp.
I start running through the empty office, dizzy and disoriented, not sure how to get out.
Ethan races behind me as I slam through fire doors, up the flight of stairs, and back onto the rooftop. ‘Wait. Petri, wait!’
The air is cold and biting as I burst out of the door, but I can hardly feel it as I run forward. Desperate to get away.
I skid to a halt on the asphalt and Ethan grabs hold of my jumper, stopping me from toppling over the edge.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks, taking me by my elbows and pulling me into him.
‘Home,’ I say into his shoulder. ‘I have to get home.’
His heart pounds behind his ribs. It’s so loud I don’t know how it’s not bursting out of his chest. He steps back and looks down. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘But not this way.’
I look over the edge of the building, down on to the concrete far below. For a second I think I see a body lying on the floor, but as the wind blows I realise it’s a bin bag lying in a lumpy heap. I imagine myself down there, sprawled out, limbs broken, head crushed and bleeding out on to the street. I hold on to him, fighting the urge to leap. It would be so easy, and then all of this... this mess would be over. Maybe I could finally sleep.
Ethan doesn’t let go of my hand as he shows me the way back down, guiding me from building to building and wall to wall. When my feet finally touch solid ground behind a block of flats, I feel more myself. Steadier than I have in weeks.
‘Wait!’ I say. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realise, to notice the silence. ‘My feed. I can’t see it anymore.’
Ethan tilts his head and looks at me. ‘Maybe the chip finally fried?’
‘Maybe.’ I expect sadness. A sense of loss. Or relief, even. I just feel empty.
It’s only when I exit the alley and return to the main street that I realise it’s not only me who’s suffering.
Crowds of people, who moments ago must have been watching the fireworks, are now staggering around. They look lost. Some are crying, holding themselves. Others look blankly into the sky, searching for something.
A girl kneels over a man, tears falling down her face. ‘Daddy!’ she shouts. ‘Daddy, get up please.’
I stumble over and squat down next to her. I avoid looking at her father. I’ve never seen a dead body before and I don’t want to now. When I do gather the courage to glance down, it’s clear he’s not dead. Although looking at his face I almost wish he was.
He’s staring at nothing or at least nothing that I can see. But whatever it is, it’s terrifying him. His face is frozen in a rictus of terror, gums bared, lips peeled back, and his hands are balled into twisted fists beside his head.
I lay a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him, but he doesn’t even notice my presence. The girl looks up to me, her eyes floating in tears. Like I could do something. Like I have any idea what the hell is going on.
‘Help,’ she whispers, shaking her dad. Hoping he’ll wake up. ‘Help.’
It’s too much. She’s asking too much of me. I scrabble away from her and her dad and fall back on to my backside, knocking into someone behind me. It’s a woman, in a smart black, military-style coat and a small woollen hat.
‘I can’t find my husband,’ she says like she’s waking up from a dream. ‘Have you seen my husband?’ She staggers off, stopping each person she passes to ask them the same question. But they’re all still reeling from whatever shock has taken hold here. No one knows where they are, let alone where her husband is.
It’s like something you see on the news after a bomb blast. Like the footage they made us watch in school of 9/11 and 7/7. People walking around in a daze from the blast, looking for someone to tell them where to go. There’s no blood here. No dust coating everyone. But their eyes are the same. Like they’ve seen too much.
Feet scuff behind me. Ethan leans down to wrap his arm around the now wailing girl. ‘It will be OK,’ he says. I can’t tear my eyes away from her father. ‘Petri!’ Ethan shouts. He shakes me and finally I manage to look at him. ‘Petri, get help,’ he says.
I clamber to my feet and look around. A middle-aged woman with bleach-blonde hair staggers towards me. I grab her, shouting into her face. ‘Get help.’ She shrugs me off, angrily and backs away.
A man in a dark suit is leaning against a lamp-post. I run over to him. ‘Call the police,’ I say. ‘Call anyone!’
He
shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘I can’t. I can’t access Glaze.’
‘What?’
‘Me neither,’ a teenage girl standing near us says. Her mascara has run in dark pools, making it look like she has two black eyes. ‘It’s total blackout.’
‘Do you think it’s a terrorist attack?’ the man in the suit says. ‘Have they taken down Glaze? It’s what I’d do, you know, if I were a terrorist. Take out the means of communication. Cause panic. Yes, that’s what this must be.’ He turns to face the milling people. ‘It’s a terrorist attack! But we’re OK. Everyone, we’re OK!’ He walks off into the crowd, his hands raised like he’s some sort of messiah.
‘Petri!’ Ethan calls after me. He’s carrying the girl, her head pressed into his neck.
‘If Glaze is down Zizi will know what’s going on,’ I say. The image of her standing in front of the mirror hits me again. Hits me so hard I have to grab on to a nearby wall to stop myself from falling over.
‘We can’t leave her,’ he says, indicating the girl in his arms.
‘It’s not like we can do anything to help!’
‘I’m going to stay. The police or ambulance or someone has to come. They can’t leave all these people here.’
The girl’s father isn’t the only one still lying on the ground. Amid the crowd of people gathering themselves, there’s another man not getting up.
‘OK, and then meet me at Logan’s lab. If this is his fault, if he did this...’ I can’t finish. ‘Two hours.’
Ethan nods.
‘I have to go. I’m sorry.’
19
THE READER SCREEN on the security gates is still not working and Phil is nowhere to be seen. I look at the number pad, the last security measure. The lights on the unit are flickering on and off. My hands shake as I punch the code in. It squawks. I try again, focusing harder this time. The gates swing open allowing me to enter.
People are standing in their doorways and front gardens with that same look of shock and terror I’ve seen on almost every face on my way here. But there’s a new look emerging. A sort of contentment. I guess it’s because they’re happy they’ve survived whatever’s happened. But as neighbour hugs neighbour I can’t help but get the sense that they’re enjoying the shared experience.
‘Blitz spirit,’ a woman says as she hands her neighbour a steaming cup of tea.
My house waits ahead, standing alone. I race up the steps, two at a time, swipe my hand against the reader and throw the door open before the system has a chance to announce my arrival.
A man sits on the stairs, his head in his hands. He looks up slowly and the emptiness of his stare is like being kicked in the stomach by a horse. Eyes that once shone like silver now look like lead. I lean against the door behind me and slide slowly to the floor. I feared it on the way here. But seeing Max here, a broken man, confirms it. Zizi has to be dead.
‘She’s upstairs,’ Max croaks, then pulls himself to his feet using the banister and walks unsteadily up the steps.
A woman and a man, both in sharp suits, matching short haircuts and matching expressions of shock, appear from the kitchen and follow Max up the stairs. The man I recognise as Jonathan, Max’s personal assistant. The woman is new. I wonder what happened to her predecessor. And if Max hires people with cropped hair or makes them cut it after they get the job.
There will be a car outside with at least another three people in it. Max’s entourage. Accountants, media consultants, personal security. They follow him like a shadow. Is he ever really alone? I know he hardly ever goes home. ‘Business never sleeps,’ he said once. ‘So neither do I.’
Why are they here now? This is family business. That’s if Zizi and I could ever really be called a family.
I sit on the floor for I don’t know how long. A minute. Five. An hour? Time has ceased to mean anything.
Then I finally drag myself to my feet and start walking.
The roughness of the banister, which I have rubbed my hands against every day for nearly ten years, feels alien. Maybe this isn’t my house. Maybe there has been some strange mistake.
When I open the door to Zizi’s room, Max’s assistants are stood in either corner of the room, hands clasped together, heads bowed, like angels of death. Max is perched on the side of Zizi’s bed, wiping at her face with a hand towel. A guest towel I notice, and I’m dimly aware that Zizi would be annoyed that he was using it.
He leans back as I take an unsteady step into the room. I can see her clearly now. Her chest moves up and down, in quivering unsteady breaths.
She’s not dead. Not dead! My heart soars and the rush of joy practically lifts me off my feet and throws me back across the room.
‘Mum!’ I say, reaching out to her.
There’s still a chance. I can say sorry for everything I’ve done. I can tell her about everything that’s happened and she’ll know how to fix it. Then I see her eyes. As empty and lost as the man I saw on the street. Maybe it is too late after all.
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘We don’t know,’ Max says. He holds out the small towel and Jonathan plucks it out of his hand without needing be told. He runs off to the en suite and a tap starts running. Jonathan returns a moment later and places the towel, freshly dripping with cool water, into his boss’s hand. Max has removed his gloves, I notice, and his hands look unnaturally pale. He returns the cloth to Zizi’s forehead.
‘Some sort of virus was released on the network,’ Max says. ‘We’ve had to shut the whole system down.’ He spits the words, outraged that he’s been brought to this. ‘Whatever it is, it seems to be affecting different people in different ways. We all saw these images. Oh, Petri, I’m so glad you weren’t able to see them.’ He reaches out his spare hand to grasp my shoulder. ‘Terrifying in a way I can’t explain. But while most of us are now recovering from the shock, I’m getting reports that a handful of people, well...’ He looks down at Zizi. ‘Hopefully it’s only a matter of time.’ He reaches out and dabs at the angry red marks on my mother’s face with the towel.
‘The ambulance will be here shortly,’ the woman says.
I walk around the bed and sit on the opposite side of the bed from Max. The foam mattress hisses under my weight. Zizi doesn’t move.
I take hold of her hand, realising that it’s the first time I’ve intentionally touched her in months. Years maybe. She was always so busy with her career. And I was so busy being resentful. Her skin feels cold.
We sit in vigil over her stiff body for a few minutes before I hear the chime that means someone’s at the door.
‘That was fast,’ I say, not because I am paying any attention to the passing of time, but because I have the idea that’s what you’re supposed to say at times like this.
‘WhiteHealth ambulance,’ Max says, standing up. ‘Zizi would have insisted on NHS I’m sure, so this will have to stay our little secret.’
I hesitate before following him out of the room. I don’t want to leave Zizi alone with the assistants. But what harm can they do? Not after all the harm I have done.
My knees struggle to bend as I climb down the stairs, reminding me of when I was little and the stairs felt like a mountain to be conquered. The medics waiting below wear dark blue suits with the company logo punched out of their collars. Two men, and they look shell shocked; wide-eyed and pale.
‘Busy night?’ I say, and I choke a little laugh. I press my hand over my face to keep the laugh in and hide the smirk spreading across my face. And now it’s started I can’t stop it. The most inappropriate thing to do and it’s all I want to do. The laugh sounds like steam escaping through my fingers.
The medics give me the tiniest of glances, and one of them moves me out of the way so they can get upstairs. Firmly, but kindly.
I did this. I did this to Zizi. I wanted her out of the way and I got what I wanted.
I curl myself into a ball, shaking with suppressed laughter that turns into gasping sobs. There are
tears streaming down my face and when I look up, I see Max crouching down and peering at me through a fog.
The slap comes out of nowhere. I hear it more than feel it. A loud, ringing thunk.
‘I’m sorry, but you were hysterical.’ He holds his hand against my face, gently thumbing my cheek, his eyes soft and sincere again behind his glasses.
He straightens up and pulls out his scarlet satin handkerchief and uses it to wipe his hand, wiping my tears off his palm. He considers the cloth for a moment, then lets it fall. I watch it drift gently to the floor, where it lies like a pool of blood.
By the time they bring Zizi down the stairs on a stretcher, my face has started to sting.
Max is pacing slowly, back and forth across the hallway, his black shoes squeaking with each tread. He stops to watch Zizi manoeuvred out the door and into the ambulance waiting below. The medics throw open the back doors and Zizi is swallowed up. One hops into the driver’s seat while other walks back up the steps to the house.
‘We’ll take good care of her, Mr White.’
‘Max, please.’
‘Sure, Max.’ The medic blushes. Another of Max’s fans I see.
‘What’s going on, Dave?’
‘We’re not exactly sure. But whatever those images were, they were broadcast network wide. Everyone saw them. Everyone.’ He rubs at his forehead as if trying to rub the images away. ‘And while it was terrifying for everyone, for some it’s... been too much. It’s put them into a sort of catatonic state. It’s only been an hour though, so we’re waiting.’
Wait and hope, I think.
‘How many so far?’
The medic’s eyes snap up and to the right. Hard to know if he’s accessing something, or if it’s a tick left over from too long on Glaze. ‘Ten so far for us. But I think more across the country. There’s also been some heart attacks and injuries caused during the attack. The NHS is overwhelmed. When we’ve finished for the night, Luke and I were going to volunteer. If that’s OK with you, sir, I mean, Max?’
